


let's let things come out of the woodwork

by speedboat



Series: order of operations [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Closeted Character, Enemies to Lovers, First Time, Gay Billy Hargrove, Hooking up, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 10:17:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19828093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speedboat/pseuds/speedboat
Summary: “Where do you live?” Billy asks.“Uh, Loch Nora,” Steve says. “On the East End.”Billy considers making Steve put his address in his phone, but he’s also thinking about the prospect of getting lost with Steve, spending more time with Steve.Unfortunately, Steve is well-acquainted with his shitty, ugly hometown and knows exactly how to get home. Every time Billy opens his mouth to start up a conversation, Steve says “right” or “left” or “sharp left, right there, yeah.” And pretty soon they’re pulling into Steve’s driveway, and Billy hasn’t gotten to talk to him at all, really.Steve’s house looms dark and massive ahead of them. Billy looks over at Steve, expecting him to get out of the car, but Steve just kind of sits there, staring.“Man, uh,” Steve says. “I know this is annoying but, uh. I don’t really want to go inside yet.”Billy can scarcely believe his fucking luck.or: Camaro sex, henny





	let's let things come out of the woodwork

**Author's Note:**

> based on [ this](https://me.me/i/suuuuuunshine-1st-base-sex-2nd-base-hitting-each-other-up-7cee3ee8426d4dc6bf3131af82bb817e) tweet. 
> 
> no supernatural elements, sorry, i'm lazy!!! assume steve's anxious nature is just generally from him existing on this planet in 2019.

Steve Harrington looks impossibly sad sitting alone at the tables while DRAM’s “Broccoli” plays on the dance floor of Hawkins’ prom. Sadder than anyone should ever be with DRAM’s “Broccoli” playing behind them. 

He’s like a living embodiment of the Party City streamers and limp catered Chinese food currently cloaking the drab interior of Starcourt’s ancient mall. He’d been with Wheeler and the Freak all night, dancing and sitting in their weird, secretive triangle at the table with their jackets and Wheeler’s shoes, long-discarded. 

(Not that Billy’s been looking.)

But Wheeler had dragged Byers out onto the dance floor for “Kiss Me Through the Phone” two songs ago, and they’re still out there, spinning and laughing and coupling up. And King Steve is, like, slumped and not in a fun, too-lit way. 

Billy knows, okay, that “plenty of bitches in the sea” wasn’t the hottest take he’s ever given. Not exactly validation city. But the sentiment, Billy stands by. Nancy Wheeler isn’t anything worth ruining your senior prom over. 

Billy’s in the corner by a bunch of fake plants, trying to hide from his prom date. Billy had kind of wanted to go alone, or just not go at all, but he’d thought too long about what everyone would say if _Billy Hargrove_ didn’t take a date and had this elaborate stress fantasy where he got outed. So he’d decided, the week before, to just take Tammy to prom because they ran in the same circles and Carol had told him she’d seen her making eyes at him in Spanish class and he sort of abstractly knew what a normal teenage boy would want in a prom date and Tammy, with her big blue eyes and big, perky tits, seemed like a good enough fit. 

It’s become clearer as the night goes on, though, that what Carol had thought was “making eyes” is actually a full-blown crush on him. She keeps wanting him to dance with her which makes _sense_ , okay. Billy’s not a heartless monster, despite what everyone thinks, he gets that he’s leading her on and Tammy just doesn’t have some crucial information that she needs to make an informed decision about pursuing him. But also, like, Jesus Christ, she won’t leave him alone. 

Billy realizes too late he’s been staring too long when Steve looks up. It’s probably the bowl Billy had smoked before, coupled with the pulls of stolen cognac from Tommy’s flask. Steve locks eyes with him, and Billy startles before he can avert his gaze, focusing on the punch bowl over in the corner. After a minute, though, he sneaks a glance in Steve’s direction again, and finds Steve still looking at him, almost considering him. 

This is new. Ever since Billy had went apeshit on him in October, Steve has refused to look at Billy. He has this way of looking through him--focusing his eyes on Billy’s forehead or something, so it’s like he’s looking at him but not seeing anything. Steve will pass to him in basketball, but it’s robotic, it doesn’t give Billy what he’s looking for. 

It’s sucked. Billy absolutely knows he deserves Steve ignoring him; if Billy had the option to avoid Neil, he totally would. And there’s a large part of Billy that regrets hulking out on Steve just because that was, like, a fucked up thing to do. It had made Billy feel really powerful for all of twenty-five seconds, like he was finally in control for once in his life, and then he’d woken up on the Byers’ lawn and felt a horrible wave of regret and terror and the distinct feeling that he was turning into his dad.

But a smaller part of Billy regrets hulking out on Steve, specifically, because Steve is hot and seems pretty cool and Billy had been nursing a little crush deep under his skin pretty much since their introduction at that stupid Halloween party. And Steve had gone from this blushing, huffing princess that overreacted to every stupid pigtail Billy pulled to a stone wall, completely disgusted by him. And growth for Billy is not giving into his urge to yank those pigtails clean off his scalp for a little attention.

Billy’s heart is thumping fast as his eyes dart to Steve again. Steve is still watching him, his expression unreadable. He looks away after a few seconds, but the damage is already done. Billy feels like his face is on fire. For a wild second, he thinks about just striding over to Steve and apologizing for all the harm he did, striking up a conversation.

He feels a tap on his elbow and startles. 

“Hey, you,” Tammy tells him. “Tommy requested Gold Digger. We checked the queue and it’s up next. You should come dance.”

“Sounds good,” he tells her, and turns away from Steve, trying not to think about the fact that a few seconds of eye contact with him has made Billy more excited than anything Tammy’s ever done for him. 

Billy suggests they leave prom like an hour before it’s supposed to be over. He’s not drunk anymore and he’s ready to be, because Wheeler and the Freak have dragged Steve onto the dance floor with them and Billy is vibrating out of his skin watching Steve dance. Dance _badly_ . And it’s also just so _fucking_ easy to get his way in Hawkins, it’s insane. It’s like all of these kids just need someone to boss them around, and Billy’s the only one up to the task. Tommy and Tammy and Carol and a bunch of other bullshits who don’t understand that Billy doesn’t really give a shit anymore all grab their stuff and leave the Starcourt Events Center, stopping in the parking lot so the girls can change and Billy and Tommy can have a smoke. 

“Senior pr-OM, babe!” Carol yells into the black Hawkins night, sort of to Tommy. She runs at him, her dress already discarded in the car, wearing just her bra and panties, and he reaches out for her and they kiss. Billy takes another drag off his cigarette, watching as Tammy emerges from behind Tommy’s Range Rover, wearing a pair of shorts and a tank top. She saunters towards him, clearly under the impression that Billy’s _just not a dancer_. 

More and more Billy is wishing he’d just gone stag, rumors be damned. It’s just a lot of work to live this whole other life, especially when he’d had a taste of how freedom felt in California. And it makes him feel like a coward to be so closeted again. It’s not like there aren’t gay kids in Hawkins; they’re just brave enough to be themselves instead of hiding behind a mask of drugs and reputation. Some drama kids and band girls had been dancing together tonight and they might have been freaks but at least they weren’t afraid all the time. 

“Hey,” Tammy says as she reaches him, voice low. She laces her arms around Billy’s neck, and looks up at him with bedroom eyes. Billy’s stomach rolls.

“Hey yourself, sweetheart,” Billy says, like he’s Cary Grant or something, and leans down to kiss her.

The party is at Nick Long’s house, and it’s already rolling when Billy and Tammy pull up in the Camaro. Tammy likes him enough not to comment or even look grossed out at the interior of Billy’s shitty car, which is. Kind of sweet, if he thinks about it a little. If he thinks about it a little, and if he was just straight and normal, he’d find that sweet and this could be a good night for them. 

Her perfume is kind of cloying, though, and her breath smells like garlic from the wontons earlier, and Billy is also still a raging homo, so he shuts off the car and makes for the handle before she can drag him back down to make out any longer. 

“I’ll see you later,” he says to her, turning his head a little, and then he’s making a beeline for the door, relishing the feeling of the bass rattling the walls as he walks into the party.

If he and Max were still on speaking terms, she’d call that chauvinist male pig behavior. And she’d be right.

Billy is about to take three shots from three bottles on Nick Long’s counters, one right after the other. He wants the feeling of the burn in his throat spreading pleasantly through his whole body until he’s feeling a little numb. A little stupid. And that’s when he sees King fuckin’ Steve, sulking on a couch in the living room, all alone and surrounded by his classmates.

What Billy should do is nothing. He should respect Steve’s right to never speak to him again and get drunk and make out with Tammy and blame whiskey dick. Even for Billy’s own sake, he should just ignore Harrington and get the fuck on with his life. In three months, Steve will be gone to college and Billy can stop suffering over this stupid infatuation he has. Most of all, Billy _should not apologize to Steve Harrington at this party._

 _Should_ and _will_ are two very different words to Billy.

He plops down on the couch next to Steve, all nonchalant. Like his heart isn’t pounding.

Steve looks over at him, laconic, and just kind of stares for a second. Not surprised, more _what could you possibly say to me_ __?_ _The circles under his eyes are huge and his pupils are way dialated.

“Harrington,” Billy says. 

“What do you want?” Steve asks. He’s staring at Billy, his eyes overhuge. “You’re not gonna beat me up again, are you?”

“No, Jesus,” Billy says. “I actually just wanted to say, man, uh--”

“‘Cause it hurt _so bad_ last time. Dude. I had headaches for weeks.”

Billy feels his face flush. He hadn’t wanted to confirm with Max or anyone else that he really had fucked Steve up. After he’d lost control last October, he’d woken up so ashamed of himself. So embarrassed at the person he apparently was now, one who beat people up for no good reason. And Max hadn’t spoken to him until Christmas, so it had been easy not to think about the damage he’d caused.

“Listen, Harrington,” Billy says, turning to face him. “I just wanted to say, I. I lost control. And I’m really sorry I hurt you.”

“Oh,” Steve says. He looks straight into Billy’s eyes, like he’s got laser vision or something. He reaches up and touches Billy’s face, right on his eyebrow, and Billy feels himself go bright red. Part of him wants to break eye contact, dart his eyes around to see who’s seeing this, how much damage control he’ll have to do. Another part of him wants to drown in this moment and take whatever consequences he gets for it. 

Steve strokes his eyebrow so the hairs lie smooth and flat. Then he moves his thumb abruptly the other way.

Then he bursts out laughing.

“Harrington,” Billy says. “I’m really sorry.”

Steve looks directly into his eyes and says, with surprising lucidity, “I know you’re sorry, Billy.”

“Oh. Well, yeah. Uh, sorry I didn’t--”

“I’m so high,” Steve whispers, still boring holes in Billy’s eyes. “Hargrove, I’m so high. Jonathan got us stuff from I think his boss? Or something and he gave some to me and I took it and now I’m--here.”

“Byers smokes?”

“Right?” Steve says. “It’s always the freaky art kids you don’t expect. Or, uh, sorry. Jonathan’s not a freak. Not anymore, now he’s my,” he sighs. “My friend.”

“I mean.” This is risky. If he says this wrong, Billy could be out of Steve’s graces for good. “I think he can be your friend and still be, you know. A freaky art kid.”

Steve blinks at him, two or three times, and then he laughs. He laughs really hard. Obviously it’s the drugs talking, Billy is self-aware enough to know that he’s not a terribly funny person, but it still feels good to have Steve Harrington laugh at something he said. 

Steve is still laughing when his eyes catch something behind Billy, and Billy turns to see Byers and Wheeler, looking significantly less fucked-up than Steve, leaving through the front door. Byers’ arm is around Wheeler’s waist, and they’re gazing into each others’ eyes.

It’s revolting. _Straight people._

Steve’s laugh comes out one last time, harsh, and then his stupid beautiful Bambi eyes look so sad, Jesus Christ. 

“They were, uh. My ride,” Steve says, looking down at his knees. “Which I see now is stupid because it's prom night and. Obviously they were going to leave together.”

“I can give you a ride home,” Billy says automatically. 

Steve looks up at him. 

“I owe you, man,” Billy hastens to explain. “For the head injury.”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve repeats, kind of glossed-over. “For the head injury.”

So they leave the party at, like, 11pm, which is crazy early for Billy. He doesn’t do a kegstand, he doesn’t say goodbye to Tommy or Carol or Tammy. He just walks with Steve through the cool May night, leads him, kind of stunned at his luck, to the cars parked near the woods by Nick’s house, sits in the driver’s seat and motions for Steve to get inside. 

Steve climbs in the car, looking around at it.

“Seatbelt,” Billy says. Steve fumbles for it.

“Where do you live?” Billy asks.

“Uh, Loch Nora,” Steve says. “On the East End.”

Billy considers making Steve put his address in his phone, but he’s also thinking about the prospect of getting lost with Steve, _spending more time_ with Steve.

Unfortunately, Steve is well-acquainted with his shitty, ugly hometown and knows exactly how to get home. Every time Billy opens his mouth to start up a conversation, Steve says “right” or “left” or “sharp left, right there, yeah.” And pretty soon they’re pulling into Steve’s driveway, and Billy hasn’t gotten to talk to him at all, really.

Steve’s house looms dark and massive ahead of them. Billy looks over at Steve, expecting him to get out of the car, but Steve just kind of sits there, staring.

“Man, uh,” Steve says. “I know this is annoying but, uh. I don’t really want to go inside yet.”

Billy can scarcely believe his fucking luck.

“Uh,” Billy says. He reaches under his seat, grasping until he finds what he’s looking for. He holds up a baggie and shakes it at Steve. “I have more weed.”

“Well,” Steve says. “In that case.”

Billy gets out and pulls at the front seat so they can climb into the back. That move in itself feels like Billy is giving himself away, because a tiny part of him thinks _just in case,_ but if Steve notices he doesn’t say anything. They crawl into the backseat, leaning on opposite windows. 

Billy takes out the best bud from the gram he’d bought last payday and sets to work grinding it. It’s nice to have something familiar to do with his hands while he watches Steve.

Steve is focusing on little things in the car, eyes darting in a way that makes Billy feel on-edge. He watches Steve notice the faded blanket draped across the backseat, the rips in the upholstery between them, the stain on the carpet that came with the car. Neil and Billy were planning to go in half on a car back in San Diego, but then Neil lost his job and Billy had been left with $1200 to pick out his dream ride, and, well. A ‘99 Camaro whose engine was rusting out the bottom about did the trick. 

It’s not a fucking BMW, but Billy paid for it himself and he tries to keep it nice. He checks the grinder for the right texture and refuses to attend to how embarrassed the scrutiny makes him feel.

“Joint?” asks Steve, gesturing to Billy’s Ziploc of rolling papers, two lighters, and his bowl. 

“Pipe,” Billy says. “I don’t have the fingers for that, princess.”

“Nancy always rolls for us,” Steve says with a sigh, deflating into the window behind him. “She had tiny hands. Like a raccoon.”

Billy snorts, sprinkling a pinch of the bud into his bowl. 

“A raccoon?”

“Yeah,” says Steve. He pulls out his phone, types something. “See?” He turns his phone to Billy. 

It’s Nancy’s contact: BIG WHEEL, it says, and her picture is a raccoon holding out its, okay, really fucking cute, tiny hands. 

Billy tries to roll his eyes, act nonchalant about the reminder that Steve still has it so bad for his ex. He really is about to smoke out the guy he likes, knowing with like 85% of his brain that this is a waste of weed.

“Cute, right?” Steve says.

“Cute,” Billy capitulates. He packs down the weed, adds another pinch and stubs that with his pinky, too, and then fumbles for a lighter from his bag. He lets his finger drag on Steve’s leg for just a second as he pulls it out, sparks it, and lights up. He takes the first drag, sucks it deep in his lungs, passes to Steve. 

“I always cough on the first hit,” Steve says, looking him gravely in the eye. “Don’t laugh.”

He takes a hit, sucks it down, and, sure enough, emerges with a violent thirty seconds of hacking. That sound takes Billy back to being fifteen again, and he feels his lips twitch as he watches Steve double over like some newbie. 

“F-huh-fuck you,” Steve says as he finally finishes up, passing the bowl back to Billy. 

“Maybe you didn’t _turn bitch_ after all,” Billy says to him and sparks up again. “Maybe it was always there.” He takes two good clean hits. He always starts to feel it in his face first, it goes kind of numb and tingly, and _there_ it is. Yeah. It feels like fucking prom night, finally. Even though he’d always imagined it being at the beach with his friends in San Diego, rather than in the backseat of his shitty car in Hawkins with his stupid straight crush. 

“Shut up,” Steve says, leaning in to smack his arm. Billy can’t help it, he’s high, and he looks down at Steve’s hand, touching his arm, and then up into Steve’s stupid-pretty eyes. His face is a lot closer than Billy thought it’d be. Steve just kind of stares back, mouth hanging a little bit open, and there’s a second Billy thinks he could lean in and maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. And then he thinks about the repercussions that decision could have for him and, wildly, desperately holds out the pipe and the lighter. 

“D-do you want another hit?”

Steve nods, takes them, but he doesn’t sit back against the window again, keeping them pretty crowded together on the bench seat. He lights up again, smooth this time. Billy’s having trouble keeping track of his own movements, regulating them the way he feels like he has to every other moment of his life. He’s staring at Steve’s lips, he can feel himself staring, but he can’t look away as they round and unround themselves during his exhale. And then--he can sense Steve staring, looks up to meet his eyes and Steve’s _staring_ and then he leans forward just an inch or two and Billy moves his face closer, on instinct, and then he hears the rustle of Steve’s stupid sexy tuxedo shirt and then Steve is leaning in and tilting his head left so Billy goes left and they kiss, once. Chaste, almost. 

Billy’s heart is racing, and he pulls back just a hair, opens his eyes. Steve’s eyes stay closed for a second, he leans in farther, and, when he doesn’t find Billy there, they open, searching Billy’s face.

“Shit,” Steve whispers. “Tell me I didn’t fuck that up.”

It’s an out. Billy could stay on the straight and narrow, live his life the way Neil wants him to. Keep trying to be an all-American guy. He wouldn’t have to be a jackass about it, he wouldn’t tell anyone Steve had tried to kiss him. _It’s just not for me, man,_ he could say, and that would be that. 

“You didn’t fuck it up,” Billy says, and leans in again. 

Steve’s hand goes instantly to the back of his neck, and Billy can hear him scoot closer on the backseat until he feels Steve’s leg on top of his, and Billy opens his mouth and there’s lush tongue there, warmth all around him as they start to kiss sloppier and sloppier. Fuck. Contrary to what he tries to make people think, Billy hasn’t done this that much. He did his fair share of making out with girls in early high school, but it had felt kind of...robotic. Chorelike. And then he’d figured out the whole gay thing and made queer friends back in California where people weren’t _repressed as shit_ all the time, and he’d kind of practiced making out with some of them, but it felt like. Making out with your friend. More giggly and judgmental than sexy. 

Now, though. Billy can hear the wet sounds of their mouths connecting and breaking, and it should be a little gross the way it was with Marlena and Dougie and Carlos, but instead it’s fucking hot. This is _hot._

Steve leans over more, kind of pushing Billy so his back is resting on the wall of the Camaro, and climbs on top of him, slotting a knee between Billy’s legs. He grinds down on Billy, then pushes his knee up, and the fabric between them catches on Billy’s dick. Billy groans into his mouth, taking Steve’s lips between his with more purpose, kissing faster and faster as they start to really grind. Billy puts his hand to Steve’s hip, feels where part of his shirt has come untucked. He snakes his hand up to feel the warm patch of skin at Steve’s hip. Still bucking hips. Steve pulls away after a few second of that, and starts unbuttoning his shirt, pace frantic.

“You?” he says.

“Huh?” Billy says. He’s still, like, really high. 

“Take your shirt off,” Steve says, all low and hot, and Billy swallows, nods. He pulls at the buttons, getting it halfway undone before he yanks it off. 

He looks up at Steve, shirtless on his lap. His eyes are blown out and his lips look a little swollen and Billy is losing his mind, how is this happening to him? And then Steve is leaning forward and kissing down Billy’s neck, sucking at his collarbone and finally, finally, snaking his hand down to Billy’s cock, hard in his pants. He rubs at it, moving back up to kiss Billy on the lips again, and it’s so much, holy shit, almost too much--

“I can take off my pants,” Billy pants into Steve’s mouth. “If that’s--”

“Yeah, no. Do that,” Steve says, and Billy moves his hand between them to unbutton his pants. Steve is hard against his wrist, and the confirmation of being wanted feels...Billy gets distracted for a second, just feeling Steve through his prom pants. 

“Yours,” he says, and Steve runs his tongue along Billy’s neck as they shimmy out of their slacks. 

Steve licks his hand, reaches into his briefs and cups him, bare skin on bare skin. Like he’s done this before. Billy follows his lead, wrapping his hand around Steve. It’s weird--his own but different. Not bad, just...weird. And they’re kissing again, quicker, as Steve begins to stroke him. His thumb swipes at the precum on the tip of Billy, adding a little lube to the rough friction on his cock. Billy is slowly arriving at the realization that he’s going to come soon, embarrassingly quick, and he lets out a little whine, higher than he’d like, kissing Steve fierce, hard. He feels himself start to tremble, as Steve speeds up, and Billy speeds up, and his thighs are tensing and then he’s coming, into his briefs and all over Steve’s hand. Steve lasts seconds longer, letting out a punched-out groan that seems to echo in the car. Steve goes limp on top of Billy, the warm weight of him kind of comforting. Soothing.

They lay there, panting, until Steve extricates his hand from Billy, covered in spunk, and searches for a spot to wipe his hand. 

“Glovebox,” Billy manages to say as he watches Steve contort to reach the glovebox, grabbing a napkin and wiping the jizz off his hand. Steve sits back on the other side of the backseat, breathing heavily, as Billy pushes himself up to a seated position. There’s a thick silence between them, the kind that make Billy feel like he’s about to be out on his ass with someone. 

“That was,” Steve says. His face is flushed. “Uh.”

Billy’s trying to keep the post-orgasm bliss around while he can. He’s trying to focus on the fact that he knows what beautiful Steve Harrington looks like when he comes, but there’s already a niggling worry in his gut. He can’t help but worry at the distance between them, feeling his heart start to hammer. This was _stupid._ Nothing’s stopping Steve from telling the whole school. 

“Hey,” he says. His voice sounds strange, gravelly and high. Like he’s nervous. Weak. “Uh. You’re not gonna. Tell anyone? Are you?”

Steve gives him a long, owlish stare.

“No, Billy,” he says, finally looking away, and he lifts his ass off the seat to pull on his underwear and pants in one go. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”

He sounds irritated, but it sends a small wash of relief over Billy. 

“Where’s my shirt,” Steve says flatly. Billy reaches blindly under the seat for it and comes up victorious. He holds it out to Steve, and Steve pulls it on, carefully buttoning it. He gets about halfway through before Billy caves and leans over to kiss him again. 

“Sorry,” Billy whispers into Steve’s mouth. “I, uh. I liked it, it’s just.”

Steve lets out a shaky sigh. “No, I, uh. I get it,” he whispers back. Billy can tell he wants to say more, but instead he leans down to nip at Billy’s lower lip. They make out for another fifteen minutes, maybe, quiet and satiated.

It’s just...it's really fucking nice. Billy tries to savor it, knowing that this will probably be the first and last time it happens. And then Steve says into Billy’s mouth _I gotta get going_ and Billy says _guess so,_ and Steve grabs his shoes and makes sure he has his phone and his keys and his wallet, and slams the Camaro door behind him, leaving Billy in the steamy backseat to smack his head back against the window and wonder at what the fuck just happened. 

**Author's Note:**

> just so we're clear, Tammy Thompson got home okay!! sorry my queen <3
> 
> title from lorde's "homemade dynamite"


End file.
